


Him

by poselikeateam



Series: The Witcher - Songfics and Song-Inspired [11]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Tries His Best, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Witchers, Lambert Being Lambert (The Witcher), Lambert has the brain cell this time, Lambert is a Good Friend, M/M, Making Up, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Lambert (The Witcher), Part-Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Songfic, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witchers Love Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29182275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Lambert meets a bard in a tavern. They become fast friends. Jaskier enjoys having a companion who appreciates him, but can't stop himself from wishing that a certain other witcher had done the same. Geralt sees the two of them together, and doesn't quite know what to do with himself. In the end, all three of them are thinking the same thing, albeit for different reasons:Why'd it have to be him?[Songfic forHimby James Marriott]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Series: The Witcher - Songfics and Song-Inspired [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778191
Comments: 8
Kudos: 231





	Him

__

_Why'd it have to be him?  
I'd say you let me down  
But he's been here before  
And come back around…_

Lambert hears the song in a dingy tavern. He’d thought the place was too crowded until he’d heard that, apparently, a famous bard had come to town. Well, then, it would make sense that the place would be packed full, wouldn’t it?

He’d been skeptical, of course. Fame, after all, is not necessarily indicative of skill. Then, however, he heard the bard start. A hush fell across the crowd in a way that hardly ever happens in small-town joints like this one. Even if it hadn’t, he’d be able to hear it. The musician is skilled, and his voice resonates. Lambert isn’t quite sure, but he thinks he might be able to feel his medallion react, just barely. It’s so slight that it could be in his head. Still, he’s on alert, just in case. It’s either nothing, or it’s absolutely something, and it’s better to be prepared for something that isn’t there than unprepared for something that is. 

Still, he can’t help but enjoy himself. The song is upbeat, almost aggressive. It’s clearly the result of some massive heartbreak. Lambert isn’t the best with emotions, personally… at least, that’s how he likes to portray himself. Frankly, he has a lot of anger, and a lot of time by himself. Those two things together tend to add up to a _lot_ of introspection. Lambert’s psychoanalyzed himself and his brothers to a somewhat ridiculous extent. His reasoning is that if he can understand something, _really_ understand it, deconstruct it and put it back together until every piece makes sense and is accounted for, then it can’t hurt him. He can get past it. 

He’s still an angry fuck. He just knows _why_ he’s so angry. More importantly, he can put his anger, mostly, in the right places and on the right people. He doesn’t project nearly as much as one might think. Vesemir is really the only exception. Yeah, Lambert is abrasive, rude, and generally unpleasant, but what else can a witcher be? Those who get close enough to him know where he’s really coming from and what he really means. Everyone else knows to stay away. It’s a win-win, really.

The point is that Lambert doesn’t act like he knows emotions, really, but he is actually very in-tune with them. He can recognise them in himself and in others, and in this bard, he recognises heartbreak. He recognises pain. Whoever this song is about hurt him _bad_. Left him for another man, it sounds like, and one the bard has had problems with before that. 

__

_Will he take you to the same place?  
One more hardback in your bookcase  
You've got that look in your eyes  
I'm blind_

The last thing Jaskier is expecting to see here is a witcher.

If he’s being perfectly honest, he was under the impression that his witcher-bothering days were behind him. He had assumed that they would all just… know, somehow, to stay away from him. Maybe Geralt would tell them about the one, true annoyance in his life, warn them to steer clear of an annoying bard with too-blue eyes and an impeccable sense of dress. 

(Well, maybe not that last part, but a man can dream, can’t he?)

Anyway, he thought he was well and truly past this. He hadn’t thought much about what he would do if he met another witcher, partly because they are so few and far-between. He’d picked a route far from Geralt’s usual, but somehow, he hadn’t thought that there’d be another witcher skulking around the places Geralt doesn’t go. Even if he had thought of it, he surely wouldn’t have assumed they’d run into one another. The Continent is, after all, a big place. There are only so many witchers. And, of course, there is only one Jaskier.

Still, he sees a flash of yellow-gold — two flashes, actually — and finds his eyes drawn immediately to the dark corner the witcher is sitting in. It isn’t Geralt, of course; Jaskier’s been avoiding him on purpose. There’s very little he can actually _do_ with the small amount of fae blood that flows through him, but one thing he _can_ do is travel through the In-Between. Not _much_ , mind, but enough to keep a healthy amount of distance between himself and the White Wolf. Nevertheless, he finds his traitorous heart wishing that it _was_ Geralt. 

Instead, it’s someone he doesn’t know. Jaskier can see him just barely through the crowd, but he isn’t sure if the witcher can see him. 

He looks almost relaxed, to the untrained eye. He slouches in his chair, one arm slung over the back, right foot resting comfortably on the edge of his chair. Only after years of travelling with a different witcher can Jaskier see the tension in his muscles, like a cobra poised to strike at the slightest provocation. Jaskier can see no less than three visible daggers and knives on the man’s person, within easy reach, and that’s counting neither his swords, nor what blades he may have hidden. This witcher, though, seems unlike Geralt in every other way. 

Where Geralt is bulky, this man is more sinewy, lithe. He’s still made up of powerful, corded muscles, but he takes up far less space. Where Geralt is built to take a hit, this witcher seems to be more built for agility, to dodge rather than to simply withstand a blow. His hair is red to Geralt’s white. He looks altogether far more casual than the witcher Jaskier is used to; even if it is only a mask, he does _do not approach me_ in a very different way than what Jaskier is used to.

And, well. Jaskier has never been one to listen to such warnings.

No, he hasn’t learned a damned thing, apparently, because when his performance ends, he finds his feet leading him to another dark corner in another small tavern to ask another witcher for his honest review.

“So,” he says brightly, sitting down like they’ve been friends for years, “how was it? Three words or less, my good man.”

The witcher tilts his head, and Jaskier can’t help but feel _seen_. It’s like he’s dissecting him with his gaze alone. Still, the bard suppresses a shiver, waits for the witcher’s response. He may be many things, but he is certainly no quitter. 

(That, he supposes, is actually his problem.)

“What, only three?” he answers cheekily. 

Jaskier is a bard, a poet. He is a master of all seven liberal arts. He is, if you ask him, the best damned wordsmith on the continent (and a rather cunning linguist besides, though that’s not exactly the point). And yet, he finds himself struck speechless, for just a moment. 

“In my experience,” he answers after a pause that’s just a fraction of a moment too long, “witchers don’t tend to be too forthcoming, verbally.”

There’s a spark of interest in those golden eyes, now, and Jaskier isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. 

“Well,” says the witcher, “as far as I know, your _experience_ doesn’t have me in it.”

“Too true,” says Jaskier, unable to fight down the small smile that tugs at his lips. “Perhaps it should. I don’t suppose you’d give me your name?”

The witcher barks out a laugh. “Nice try,” he says. “Not a chance, but you can call me Lambert.”

Was he that obvious? Jaskier has, honestly, never used a Name, not like his more mischievous kin. He isn’t _like that_. Still, this witcher — Lambert — just _knows_ what he is? 

“Relax,” says Lambert. “No contract, not my problem.”

“Yes, thank you,” says Jaskier, rolling his eyes. “That’s very relaxing. Well, I suppose I’ve been betrayed for far less than a pouch of gold.”

“Figured that out from the song,” says Lambert with a shrug. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what to _do_. He knows what he’s _going_ to do, but he doesn’t know if he should. He doesn’t _need_ a witcher, doesn’t collect them like some of his kin collect mortals, like some mortals collect books. He isn’t going to stick Lambert on a shelf to show off his pretty new toy to his friends, the same way he never wanted to own Geralt. 

This witcher isn’t Geralt, though, is he? Jaskier, of all people, should know that witchers are just people, the same as any other profession. This witcher isn’t Geralt because he’s Lambert. And Lambert… isn’t Geralt. It sounds like circular logic, but it really isn’t. Lambert has this look in his eyes, a sort of curiosity, an _interest_ that he never saw in Geralt. Geralt was always so closed-off, guarded; any affection or intimacy or endearment or connection had to be fought for, tooth and nail. Lambert, though, seems intriguing and intrigued in equal measure. 

It might be a mistake, but he flags down a barmaid and orders a round each for the both of them.

__

_Have you ever seen  
Ever seen a guy with moves like that?  
Makes me wonder how I've been so bad  
My head turns when the lights  
Go dim_

The way Lambert moves is very different from Geralt. Their fighting styles are so wildly disparate that Jaskier remarks, at one point, that he can’t believe they were trained at the same school.

“Not entirely,” Lambert admits. When pressed, he sighs, and says, “There were other schools. I trained with the Cats for a while.” 

“I didn’t know there was a witcher exchange program,” remarks the bard. 

Lambert is wearing that particular scowl he gets when someone touches a nerve. “Yeah,” he says, “there’s a lot of shit you don’t know. Don’t fuckin’ need to, either.” 

He knows it isn’t the same, but a large part of him just… stops working. He knows this isn’t about him, that he’s simply poked a sore spot without realising it, but… well, that’s how it was with Geralt, too. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t about him, but that doesn’t mean shit, in his experience. Frankly, it never has. Jaskier is used to being a convenient target for others to get out their aggression towards things that don’t actually involve him. He just… he can’t do it anymore. 

“I’ll leave you alone,” he murmurs, only dimly aware of it. He might be tearing up. He hopes not; this is all embarrassing enough, thanks very much. It’s his fault, really, for thinking that it could ever go any other way. 

He’s stopped by a hand wrapping around his elbow. “Wait,” says Lambert. 

“Don’t have much choice, I suppose,” he remarks softly, mostly to himself. After all, he can only get so far with a witcher gripping his arm.

“No, listen,” Lambert insists. Using the hand he has on Jaskier’s elbow, he turns the bard to face him, before placing his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s almost impossible not to look at him, and that was probably the intention. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“You don’t have to—” Jaskier starts, but Lambert stops him with a hand over his mouth, which is really very rude. 

“I do,” says Lambert. “I’m an asshole, but I’m not gonna take my shit out on you. It ain’t right. You didn’t do anything.”

“I pried where I wasn’t wanted,” Jaskier says. It’s muffled against the witcher’s hand, but he knows that Lambert can probably make it out, with his fancy witcher senses. He almost adds _again_ , but keeps that bit to himself. 

Lambert seems to hear it anyway, even unspoken as it is. “No,” he says, “you asked a question.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I should have.”

“Why?” the witcher demands. “‘Cause Geralt doesn’t like to talk about shit? I’m a lot of things, Jask, but I’m not my fucking brother.”

“No,” Jaskier says. “I know you’re not.”

“Then start acting like it.”

“I don’t,” the bard insists weakly, even though he knows it’s a lie.

A lie that Lambert doesn’t buy, clearly. “Bullshit. You whip around like you’re gonna see him in every dark corner. I get it, Lark, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Once again, Jaskier sighs, and says, “I know.”

__

_Have you ever been  
Ever been with a guy like that?  
Out of everyone you could've had  
Why'd it have to be  
Why'd it have to be  
Why'd it have to be him?_

The thing is, Lambert only found out about Jaskier’s very unfortunate feelings rather recently.

See, Jaskier had known that, to some extent, Lambert understood the meaning behind the song he’d been playing when they met. Why else would he have made that remark, like his heartbreak at the hands of a certain white-haired witcher was obvious for anyone to see? Still, Lambert never brought it up, and Jaskier had assumed that maybe he was just uncomfortable at the thought of his friend being in love with his brother.

Obviously, they _are_ friends, and this time, Jaskier wasn’t even the first to say it. 

It was otherwise an entirely mundane moment. Lambert had just finished a job, dragging some hideous beast’s head along side him and obviously favouring his left leg the whole way to the alderman’s house. Jaskier had been outside enjoying the sunlight, playing his lute absently, getting a few coins from passers-by. As the bard wandered rather aimlessly past the alderman’s house, he saw a flash of red hair and red blood, heard Lambert’s voice rise in irritation. 

“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” Jaskier asked, striding over to the squabbling pair. It was obvious that they had been disagreeing, and was obvious now that the alderman clearly thought Jaskier would be on his side. One of the most frustrating things about passing for entirely-human has always been the way they’ve always tended to expect him to be just as awful as them. 

“Oh, master bard,” the alderman wheezed, sleazy and simpering. Jaskier just barely kept his lip from curling in irritation. Schooling his features, thankfully, is a performance art that he’d learnt at a very young age. “This swindler—”

“Swindler my hairy arse,” Lambert snapped. “You’re the one trying to weasel your way out of—”

“Gentlemen,” Jaskier cut in. “Please, we’re all civilised, are we not?”

Of course, Lambert had been the one telling the truth. That was obvious from the moment Jaskier realised they were disagreeing in the first place. Jaskier, of course, has many talents. One of them happens to be the ability to talk his way through almost any situation. And, besides that, he does have many years of helping a witcher negotiate his pay with greedy, cheating louts such as this one. 

When they walked away with one-and-a-half times the agreed-upon amount, Lambert clapped him on the shoulder with a wide grin. “Guess a friend like you can come in handy after all,” he said. Jaskier almost tripped and fell in his surprise. 

That was, Gods, over a year ago, now. He can hardly believe that things have been this good for this long. 

That’s not quite the point, though, is it? No, the point is that in the more-than-a-year that they’ve been friends, they’ve never _once_ talked about the Geralt Problem. Jaskier, not wanting to press the issue (or, really, to invite any sort of discussion on the topic) has simply elected to play the song in front of Lambert as little as possible. He actually lets himself start to believe that the subject is never going to come up, at this point.

Of course, that only lasted until the day Lambert invited him to Kaer Morhen for the winter. 

“No,” he said immediately, despite how much he’d always wanted to hear those words from a different man’s lips. 

“Why not?” Lambert pressed. “You don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Excuse you! How do you figure?” Jaskier demanded, arms crossed.

Lambert simply rolled his eyes at him. Their friendship has always had eye-rolling as one of its strongest foundations. “You said so.”

“I did not!”

“Did so.”

“When!?” 

“Two days ago, to the barmaid,” Lambert said, altogether too smug. 

“Excuse you!” Jaskier cried again. “Last I checked _you_ were not a barmaid.”

“Not to my knowledge,” Lambert said. “Why? You think I’d be pretty?”

“Beautiful, I’m sure,” Jaskier remarked drily, “if not for the eavesdropping.”

“My advice?” Lambert countered. “You want a conversation to be private, don’t be so fuckin’ loud.”

Jaskier bristled and shoved him, and Lambert laughed, entirely unbothered. He found Jaskier’s outrage entertaining, rather than childish or annoying or tiresome. The thing is, Jaskier _wanted_ to accept. He wanted to spend the winter not simpering to nobles or grading absolutely terrible compositions, but just being himself, with one of his closest friends. Oh, he knows that there’s a lot of hard work involved, but honestly! He’s not some delicate flower. He isn’t _useless_. 

Not that Lambert was accusing him of such. He just… well, he has something of a chip on his shoulder, is the thing. 

“C’mon,” Lambert needled after a few moments. “Is it about Geralt?”

And Jaskier froze, because _of course_ he did. He still wasn’t quite ready to be faced with it all. He didn’t want to talk about it. Unfortunately, that was rather obvious to Lambert who, even _less_ to Jaskier’s fortune, has never been the kind to leave well enough alone. Maybe that’s why they get along so well. 

Lambert didn’t take Jaskier’s reticence as any sort of obstacle. He simply barrelled on. “Look, I know we don’t talk about it—”

“And I’d prefer to keep it that way,” Jaskier ground out.

“— _But_ ,” the witcher continued, pointedly ignoring his interruption, “we have to at some point. Might as well get it out of the way.”

“What’s there to say?” 

“You tell me,” was Lambert’s easy answer. 

“Then I say there’s nothing _to_ say,” Jaskier stubbornly insisted. 

The witcher let out a heavy, irritated sigh in response. “I don’t know what the fuck happened between you, but you were friends for too long to let some fuckin’ woman come between you.”

“She’s not ‘some fuckin’ woman’, though,” Jaskier ground out. “She’s the love of his life, the woman of his dreams, the other half of his soul—”

“Cut the poetic shit,” Lambert growled. “Honestly, why does it matter? You can have anyone.”

“And yet, I want the one I cannot have.”

“So want someone else. Don’t let him stop you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Jaskier insisted. “I’ve had these feelings for _years_ , and I thought— I never thought they’d be reciprocated. I just thought he understood. I know he wouldn’t have any interest in me—”

Lambert, eyes as wide as saucers, had said, “Wait, _him_?”

Jaskier felt his stomach drop. Did Lambert not know? _How_ did he not know? “Yes,” he said, slowly, “why?”

“Your song’s about someone leaving you for another man,” the witcher answered. His confusion was obvious. It might have been funny, in any other circumstance. “Geralt’s fucking that sorceress, now.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” he’d said, clenching his teeth together so tight he thought they might crack. “Trust me, I am well aware.”

“No, fuck, that’s not what I meant,” Lambert groaned. “I mean, I thought it was _her_.”

“...Oh.”

Jaskier explained that in most places, a man loving another man would not be well-received. It's easier, _safer_ , to write as though his subject is one of the many women he's romanced. And then… well, then came the part Jaskier had been dreading. Storyteller he may be, but this is one story he’d very much wanted to keep to himself. Mostly, he didn’t want to relive the pain he’d felt, the rejection, the finality of it all. There was also a small part of him that worried that Lambert’s loyalty to his brother would outweigh his friendship with the bard. 

That’s why, when Lambert said, “Fuck him. He’s an asshole. Don’t let that asshole keep you from living your life. Come to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier didn’t have it in him to object a second time.

__

_Take my mind for a spin  
You don't believe in that shit anyway  
How long has it been  
Since I came down?_

Jaskier never understood why Geralt would fall for Yennefer, honestly. It’s got nothing to do with his own feelings, believe it or not. It’s just that they are _not_ good for each other. Anyone with eyes could see that. It honestly makes his head spin, when he thinks about it. Yennefer is demanding, domineering, willful. Geralt is eager to please, doesn’t know how to say no and mean it. It’s not a healthy balance, not a good dynamic. There’s too much power on one side.

They’re only together — or, were? Jaskier isn’t sure if they made up, and he doesn’t want to think about it — because of the djinn, because of Geralt’s wish, because of _Destiny_. Geralt doesn’t _believe_ in Destiny. At the very least, he _claims_ he doesn’t. 

So why is it, then, that he keeps getting tangled up in it? 

He doesn’t believe in Destiny, but his worries over his Child Surprise drove him half-mad with sleeplessness and guilt. He doesn’t believe in Destiny, but still chases the skirts of a woman who will never, _ever_ give him what he wants and needs from her. He doesn’t believe in Destiny, but he needed to blame his misfortunes on _something_ , and Jaskier… well, Jaskier was there, wasn’t he? Jaskier was _convenient_. 

How long has it been, since he came down that mountain, alone? How long since he trudged down, hoping against hope that he’d hear Geralt’s nearly-silent footsteps? How long since his hopes were dashed across the rocks as if they’d fallen from the very peak? How long since he was cast aside, like a broken toy, and never picked back up again? 

Honestly, he’d tried not to think about it, the passage of time. He’d tried to ignore the ache he felt whenever he thought of it, and the best way to do that was to _not think about it_. Now, though, he can’t help it. It’s not a sure thing, but there’s the distinct and very likely possibility that he is going to see Geralt again. Worse, that he’s going to be stuck with him for the winter, even though that’s the last thing that Geralt wants, by his own admission.

Whether he meant it or not, it’s what he said. There’s no taking it back. Jaskier doesn’t know if he’d even let Geralt take it back, if it were possible. It’s not something he can easily forget or forgive. 

“Relax,” Lambert says, slinging an arm over Jaskier’s shoulders. “I’ll be there.”

“Great,” Jaskier teases, “so you can all gang up on the poor bard.”

Lambert snorts and jostles him, a little roughly, but that’s just how Lambert is. He’s never treated Jaskier like he’s fragile, not like Geralt did. (He really needs to stop comparing them. He thought he had, but now that he’s going to be faced with his former friend again… he can’t help it. The thoughts come to him, unbidden, even though he knows that Lambert is so much more than just _not Geralt_.)

“You’re lucky I’m so fuckin’ generous,” says the witcher. “Otherwise, I might not kick his ass for you, when you say shit like that.” 

“Yes, of course,” Jaskier counters with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “How silly of me. You are the _pinnacle_ of magnanimity.”

“Damn straight,” says Lambert. He grins; it’s all teeth. Jaskier simply rolls his eyes and shoves the witcher’s side. 

__

_Gave up on New Years Day  
Conceal that smile on your face  
I've only packed a suitcase  
Leave the future defined  
If you don't mind_

Geralt doesn’t understand.

It’s been almost two years since he’s seen Jaskier. He’d looked for him, briefly, because Jaskier deserved an apology at least, after everything Geralt had said and done and _not_ said _or_ done. He deserved to hear — though, surely, he already knew — that Geralt’s problems were caused not by him, but by the witcher himself. Then, he’d never have to see Geralt again. 

Only, it became very clear, very quickly, that Jaskier did not want to see him. He’d track the bard to one town, only to find out that he’d _just_ missed him. Rarely did anyone know where he was headed next, and even more rarely did they seem willing to part with that information if they had it. 

Still, he couldn’t leave things the way he had. He _couldn’t_. Jaskier deserved _better_ than that. So, Geralt kept on his trail, kept following, kept hoping that this time, _this_ town, would be different. Every time, he followed rumours and whispers and the faintest, lingering scent of chamomile and resin. Every time, he found himself no closer than when he’d started.

Finally, he gave up. It hurt, but he deserved that, didn’t he? Jaskier didn’t need him, didn’t want him. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? 

No. No, it wasn’t, and he knows that now just as much as he’d known it then, known it on that fucking mountain, in Rinde, in Cintra. He’d said it over and over, insisting that he doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t want anyone needing him, that witchers don’t have friends or feelings. He’d hoped against hope that he could make it feel true if he just said it enough, but it only sounded more hollow the longer he’d said it. He’d hidden every smile that Jaskier brought to his lips, before the bard could see them. He didn’t want to… what? He knew that the bard had some kind of attraction to him, and he didn’t want to encourage it. 

At least, that’s what he’d told himself. To be fair, he _hadn’t_ wanted to encourage it, but only because he knows how Jaskier is. They might spend the night together, and then Jaskier would be gone the next morning. Even if he stayed, Geralt didn’t think he could go back once he opened that door. He didn’t trust himself, he wasn’t strong enough. No, better to pretend he feels nothing at all, like he always has. That is, until he couldn’t anymore, and… 

He hasn’t seen Jaskier in nearly two years, and now he finally finds him again… in the arms of his brother. Of _Lambert_. 

It doesn’t make _sense_. 

It’s clear that they’ve been something to each other for a while, now. Lambert is the more tactile of the Wolves, always ready to sling an arm around someone’s shoulder or shove them to the side or knock them upside the head… if he likes them. And he’s all over Jaskier. Their scents intermingle in a way that makes Geralt want to just pack up and leave. He would, if the pass hadn’t already snowed over. Honestly, he’s almost considering it anyway. 

But, no. That’s not right, and he knows it. He’d spent how long trying to catch up to Jaskier, to apologise to him, and now the bard is _there_. He’s not so stupid or selfish as to think that he can, or should, get between the two of them. As much as it hurts, it’s clear that they’re happy, and he cares about them both, wants their happiness, even at the cost of his own. Their future is already defined, and Geralt isn’t about to fuck with that. No, it doesn’t matter how he feels. What matters is that Jaskier is here, and so is his opportunity to make amends.

The first thing he does is corner Lambert. 

__

_Have you ever seen  
Ever seen a guy with moves like that?  
Makes me wonder how I've been so bad  
My head turns when the lights  
Go dim_

Lambert would say that Geralt ambushes him, but if he’s being perfectly honest, he was expecting it. More accurately, Geralt _tries_ to ambush him, and Lambert walks right into it, whistling all the while.

Years of listening to Geralt pine over the same fucking guy and do nothing about it — worse, insist that there’s nothing _to_ do, no pining here, no sir — has proven one thing to him above all else: he’s overwhelmingly, stupidly, exhaustingly in love with Jaskier. His time with Jaskier has taught him the same in reverse. Between the two of them, Lambert learned very quickly that neither is willing to get his head out of his own ass and _do_ something about it. They’re both convinced that the other doesn’t, or can’t, or shouldn’t feel the same thing. They’re stupid, and at first it was kind of funny, but about a week into the winter it all gets _very_ old. 

Geralt’s been avoiding the both of them. Lambert doesn’t like it. Honestly, he’s just about to corner Geralt himself and demand to know what the fuck his problem is, but Geralt gets to him first. 

“I want to apologise.”

Lambert frowns at the big idiot. “Okay? And that’s my problem how?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get in the way of what you have.” It looks like the older witcher has just downed a potion for the first time, like bile is threatening to come up instead of words. He looks almost constipated.

Now, Lambert has _options_ , here. He could just tell Geralt that no, it isn’t like that. They’re just friends. He could really lean into it, tell him not to bother, to leave _his man_ alone. He could just laugh at him and walk away. As a matter of fact, though, he does none of these things.

Instead, Lambert only shrugs, and says, “Hey, you do what you think is right.” 

“I just—”

Lambert waves him off. “I’m not the one that needs to hear it, and frankly, I couldn’t give less of a damn.” 

He knows what Geralt is thinking. Lambert’s an absolute prick; what does Jaskier see in him? Why would he choose _him_? How had Geralt been _worse_? Feeling a sudden, rare sense of pity, he pats Geralt on the back, none-too-gently, and adds, “Look. Guy like that has a lot to offer. You don’t appreciate him, you don’t deserve him. Just something to think about.”

__

_Have you ever been  
Ever been with a guy like that?  
Out of everyone you could've had  
Why'd it have to be  
Why'd it have to be  
Why'd it have to be him?_

Lambert doesn’t make sense, but that’s pretty on-brand for him. Geralt is also being very strange, but it’s not really in the way Jaskier is used to. It’s only a week into the winter when Lambert starts to get weird-weird _too_. He’s always been tactile, in his own rough way, and always been a flirt, though of course very sarcastically. Now, though, he’s being just a tad more amorous about it all. Jaskier might not have noticed with anyone else, but when a witcher starts acting differently than usual, it’s enough to give him pause.

“What, exactly, is the game, here?” Jaskier demands one night when they’re alone, “And where do I fit into all of it?” His arms are crossed in front of his chest, stance wide, and he’s using his sternest professor voice. Lambert, of course, is unintimidated. Hmph. 

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Buttercup,” the youngest witcher says, the sly tone and smirk betraying him. 

“Lambert.”

The witcher sighs. “Fine. You’re not going to believe me, though. You’re too headass about this whole, stupid thing.”

“Try me.”

“Geralt’s jealous.” 

Jaskier, of course, does not believe him. It takes nearly an hour of carefully quiet arguing before they reach some vague kind of agreement. All Lambert asks is that Jaskier trust him. He’s known Geralt decades longer, hasn’t he? And even if he’s wrong (which, he insists, he’s not) it’s an opportunity to piss off the witcher who wronged him. 

With a frustrated sigh, Jaskier says, “You know, you’re lucky I’m petty.”

“Lotta spite in that tiny body,” teases Lambert.

“Tiny!” Jaskier splutters. He knows that Lambert is _trying_ to get a rise out of him, and he knows that he makes it very easy, but it’s sort of fun, in its own way. Gods, though, of all the people he could make friends with, why does he always seem to stumble upon asshole witchers? 

As the winter progresses, though, the _asshole_ part starts to dissolve like a snowball in a fire. Geralt walks up to him the day after his and Lambert’s little discussion and says, in no uncertain terms, that he is sorry. He acknowledges that he hasn’t treated Jaskier right. He explains that he was just afraid of getting attached, makes allusions to Blaviken. 

Jaskier already knew, honestly. He knew that Geralt has been doing this whole self-punishing thing ever since that unfortunate incident decades past, despite almost none of it being his own fault. Certainly, he was the only one trying to _de-_ escalate the situation. No one cares, though. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether it was a true massacre, or simply self-defense; he killed people, and no one trusts a witcher to start with. 

It’s obvious that he just doesn’t know how to accept good things when they come. He’s spent so long convincing himself that he doesn’t deserve it, that he started to think he didn’t want it, either. If he doesn’t want something, after all, then it can’t hurt when he doesn’t have it, friendship included. 

The worst part, though, is that he thought Jaskier was human. That’s an awkward conversation, but Jaskier’s just glad that it’s over with now. 

Still, the witcher makes good on his promise. He treats Jaskier like a friend, rather than a nuisance. He listens to him, participates in conversations, gives him more details with a lot less prodding necessary. He helps wash Jaskier’s hair, puts up with a moderate amount of cheating at Gwent, even calls him _friend_. 

That last one isn’t even performative. He’s speaking to Eskel, and entirely unaware that Jaskier can hear him. That honesty makes it mean so much more. 

The next thing that Jaskier hears, though, is a bit much. Geralt laments that, out of everyone, why did Jaskier have to fall for _Lambert_? “He deserves to be happy,” says the white-haired witcher. “They both do. I just… it might not feel so… raw. If it was a stranger.”

Oh. Shit. _Lambert was right._

__

_Was it when you looked at him?  
Was it because he thought he could be  
Much more than I've ever been?  
Was it because he wasn't me?  
Was it when you looked at him?  
Was it because he thought he could be  
Much more than I've ever been?  
Was it because he wasn't me?_

Things boil over, because of course they do. In a situation that involves both Jaskier _and_ Lambert, things are bound to get dramatic one way or another; add Geralt to the mix (more specifically his terrible luck, exhausting martyr complex, and lack of interpersonal skills) and it’s a recipe for disaster, more volatile than any bomb Lambert’s ever made.

Here’s the problem: Lambert is confrontational, Jaskier has no filter, and Geralt is not equipped to deal with both of those things at once. 

Vesemir has already gone to bed, and the four younger men had spent the past few hours drinking, chatting, playing Gwent, and — in Lambert’s case, specifically — pestering Jaskier to play _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ for the seventeenth time. His brothers are not _nearly_ as amused as he is, which is probably part of the fun.

Eventually, Eskel decides to go to bed. Lambert pesters him about _old age_ and they tussle for a moment or two, before the larger witcher actually does go off to bed. Usually, Eskel likes to party the hardest, when they let loose, but sometimes he’d rather get a good night’s rest. This is simply one of those.

There’s a tense moment where Geralt seems to realise that he’s about to be alone with the man he clearly wants, and the man he thinks the former chose. Geralt shuts down, and it’s— it’s uncomfortably, eerily similar to how he looked after Blaviken. _Before Jaskier._ Lambert can’t see that fucking look on his face, not again. So, when Geralt gets up, muttering excuses about also being tired, Lambert is up and moving before he really has the time to think about what he’s going to do. Lambert moves with more purpose, and gets to the door ahead of Geralt. He leans against the doorframe in such a way that one would be unable to get through without muscling past him. Lambert, of course, would not make it easy on anyone stupid enough to attempt such a thing. 

“Now, hold on,” Lambert says in a way so casual that it must be anything but. “Night’s still young.”

“I’m not,” says Geralt, and it would be funny if everything weren’t so tense. 

“I’ll remember that,” says Lambert. 

After a few moments of silence, in which Geralt is probably hoping that Lambert will move and give up on whatever it is he’s planning, the elder witcher growls, “What do you want?” 

“What do I want? Twelve Beauclair whores and enough gold to last a lifetime,” the younger quips.

_”Lambert.”_

“I want to sit down and have a talk, just the three of us,” Lambert says. He didn’t have a plan, so he might as well start with a little earnesty and see what happens. “I’m sick and fucking tired of you acting like we’re gonna cut your balls off if you spend three minutes with us together.”

“He does have a point, you know,” says Jaskier, never one to stay out of any conversation as long as he can help it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Geralt says through clenched teeth.

“Says you, but tough shit,” answers Lambert. “You’re outvoted.”

“Two to one,” the bard adds.

They have him cornered, and he knows it. Finally, they watch Geralt give in. Jaskier doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised, but then, he’s had Geralt wrapped around his finger longer than either of them probably knows. 

When they get to the topic at hand, Lambert realises that he doesn’t exactly know what that _is_. For better or worse, though, Jaskier has no such hangups. He gets right to business, and says, “Me and Lambert—”

“Don’t,” Geralt says — pleads, Lambert thinks, but doesn’t say. There are lines that one should never cross, after all, and even he knows when he’s found one. 

Jaskier, though, is not having it. “There you go again, not _listening_ to me! You can’t just treat me like _nothing_ for _two decades_ and then be nice for a few _months_ as some sort of penance! You can’t— I won’t go back to—”

“No, I’m.” Geralt pauses, clears his throat. “It’s good that you have each other. I just don’t want to talk about it.” 

Finally, Jaskier snaps, “What is your _problem?”_ and Geralt snaps back. He doesn’t understand _why_. Why _Lambert_ , of all people? Is it because he’s a witcher? Is he a replacement, an upgrade? He gets it: Lambert is everything that Geralt can’t be. He doesn’t fault Lambert for that, nor does he fault Jaskier for wanting him. He knows he isn’t entitled to Jaskier’s affection or companionship; quite the opposite, he doesn’t _deserve_ it. 

He’d thought that, if he ever saw Jaskier again, he’d apologise, and let Jaskier yell at him — Gods know he deserves it — and then, if the bard allowed it, he’d do everything he could to make up for… well, everything. He didn’t expect anything to come of it, except (he hoped) the chance to earn the friendship he’d so foolishly taken for granted. He’d searched for _months_ because he’d regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth but that’s the rub; once they come out, you can’t put your words back in. 

He hadn’t expected to see Jaskier at Kaer Morhen, of all places. But to see the two of them together... He knows that the way he feels is unwanted, and that’s why he never brought it up.

__

_Why'd it have to be him?_  
I'd say you let me down  
But we've been here before  
It's come back around 

And at that, Jaskier flickers to life like a candle flame. Decades of flirting, and Geralt has the _gall_ to say he didn’t know how Jaskier felt about him? Geralt retorts that he figured it out, but it was too late, and Jaskier honestly wants to smack him.

“That is not for you to decide,” he says. Honestly, he wants to say that Geralt has let him down; after all, Jaskier is the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, more often than not. The thing is, though, they’ve done this same song and dance about a thousand times. They are not the best at communicating with one another. 

It’s something to work on, for sure.

Make no mistake, he means to. Things are, in a sense, back to the way they were at the start. Jaskier is Geralt’s bard, and Geralt is his witcher. Things aren’t really the same as before, though. Now, things are more solid between them. It’s not a perfect start, but it’s a brand new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Damn. This took me like, a week, when it should not have taken that long. I'll be honest: I got about 5k words in, in the first sitting, and went, "Fuck, I gotta go to bed." Then executive dysfunction just kept me from picking it back up again. C'est la vie. 
> 
> Anyway this song is so good, I had it on repeat the entire time I was writing and editing and still am not sick of it. No joke, I listened to it about 90 times in a row during my first writing sesh. It's a fuckin banger honestly. I had like, four ideas of where I _could_ go with this, and then after much deliberation and asking opinions in like 2 or 3 different servers I went with two of them. 
> 
> You can always follow me [on my Twitter](https://twitter.com/poselikeateam), to see whatever it is I'm cooking up next, or to see pictures of my cat, Eskel


End file.
